


Top of the World

by MountainRose



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Food, Hiking, M/M, Nothing interrupts and everything is peaceful, Out on a date, Schmoop, Wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainRose/pseuds/MountainRose
Summary: Tony and Steve go hiking on a spring weekend, and for once, nothing gets in the way of a perfect day together.





	Top of the World

**Author's Note:**

> look I wrote this so they could have a date and eat nice things and NO ONE CAN INTERRUPT OK
> 
> Posted today because tomorrow it is my birthday, and also Tonys! (in some universes anyway, <3 )  
> Thanks to brokeneisenglass and bitchminer for the beta work, and Synteis and Szzt-captain for alpha-reading.

 

Tony hikes surprisingly well, Steve thinks; he takes long measured steps that swing him over rocks and roots and mossy bogs. Steve had thought he'd struggle, but Tony's doing fine, he must have some personal experience after all. His hips sway, but his pack is steady; there's no wasted energy bouncing it around. He's quiet for once, attention satisfied by the complex route up the boulder field, and he's free and confident. 

Steve's heart is all fluttering with joy and he's doing his best to keep a lid on it, but _holy hell_ he loves this man.

On some stretches of mountainside they have been reduced to scrambling, and Steve has liked that best so far; the boulders are full of nooks and crevices that give good handholds, and the stretch and twist to keep feet and hands coordinated feels good. Tony hefts himself over them like he weighs nothing, hopping sideways with one hand pivoting on the stone, or popping to his feet at the peak of a boulder and casually leaping to the next on light, soundless feet. 

Steve, personally, prefers to have at least one foot on the ground, but he tries jumping too, Tony grinning and encouraging. It's fun, and more than worth the hike out.

It's not their goal, and they don't actually have the time to do a second run, but they note the place to come back to, instead, on a map Tony has cased in a waterproof wallet, and on a GPS logger. 

Steve's route takes them further up the slope, to where a river has cut a gorge through some tricky rockface. Steve could climb it, and Tony comments that it'd be fun to, but they didn't come equipped for scaling slippery, north-facing rock. The gorge though, that's fun hiking. Tony's navigating, since Steve got to pick the route, and he lights up when he realises that they're heading up into it. 

“Steve, you shouldn't have. This is like college all over again!” 

“You went gorge walking in college? I thought you were busy being twelve.” 

Tony laughs, apparently delighted, and glances back with a radiant smile. “I was, I was, but there was a summer thing Rhodey dragged me out on every year. A whole group of kids my age, a few parents, and Rhodey the camp counselor, in a set of cabins by a lake!” The roar of the water swells as they round a corner, and Steve runs a couple of steps so they can walk together. 

“Tony Stark, staying in a _cabin_? Who'da thunk it,” Steve teases, comfortable to be a little mocking now he knows just how happy Tony is in this tech-free environment.

“Don't even start, we actually slept in tents, I loved it. There was a tame crow that'd try and get into the kitchen, absolute chaos.” 

They're coming up on a tumble of stone, but there's a trail here, and they step into the packed earth with feet that are expecting more craggy rocks; it feels strange for a second, to have flat ground. The trail shows them a path up the side of the gorge, winding up between outcrops taller than Steve.

“You know, I wondered why you jumped on a chance to come hiking, I'll have to thank Rhodey when we get back,” Steve said, happy and feeling warm. 

“Oh, absolutely. It was a complete deviation from the norm for me, at sixteen.” Tony carefully sidesteps a purple beetle on the trail, and Steve takes a second to admire its iridescent shine before stepping around it. “I had no idea your body could feel good doing stuff?” Tony continues. “Thought you just had to put up with physical education being boring and awful.” 

“Not so much, in a cabin by a lake?” 

Tony twists and pauses on a rock for a second, bright and breathless and lightly haloed by the spray off a small waterfall. “ _On_ the lake. We sailed, and kayaked! Kayaking is fun. And occasionally, we'd hike up the hills and along the gorges, in wetsuits and helmets, right in the water.” Tony points at the churning, crystal clear mountain river beside them. 

“This one would be a challenge for me, I'd want a rope, but climbing up against the force of the water, swimming in the pools, it's a good time. Challenging! Never get too hot and sweaty, either.” 

Steve follows his gestures, imagines himself pulling and heaving against the current. There's a big rock in the middle of a deep, glacier-blue pool, and Steve can vividly imagine Tony using it to push off, up into the churning footwaters of the rapids.

Away from the foam, the crystal clear water is deep and slower, the river bed a jumble of vibrant yellow and red sandstone boulders that are river-worn and rounded. They must have come from somewhere upstream, carried here by flooding, it's so different from the stone they've been hiking on. Where the gorge stone itself juts up, it's darker, almost black where it's wet, with stripes of slate running through it. Where the river has cut through the layers, it's jagged and full of moss-stuffed crevices, but where the river has flowed with the layers of stone, it's smooth and undulating, like a sea bed. It's eerie, but beautiful, to see stone behave like that. 

“That up there,” Tony says, pulling Steve's arm so they're pointing together. “Is called a 'knickerbocker breaker’. 'cause you slide down it on your ass and tear up your knickers.” 

Steve looks along their arms, and the tilted slab of rock _does_ look like it'd be fun to slide down, if you were kitted up in a wetsuit to cushion it a bit. The slab has white water sheeting over it, thrown up in spots by curves and eroded holes. The rock is slick with moss and algae here and there, but mostly scoured clean by the river.

It's too cold to immediately want to try it, but the temptation is obvious. 

“Oho, no, Steve, we definitely don't have the right kit for stunts like that. C'mon, let's get you away from temptation.”

Steve laughs and lets himself be tugged back onto the trail. They hike alongside the river for over an hour, enjoying the fresh, water-scented air and shade. The trail must be from a combination of weather and animal erosion; they find hoof prints from deer in a damper patch of soil, and the grass is growing tight to the ground like it gets cropped regularly. 

They climb steadily, mostly quiet; the river is too loud to shout over, and gradually, the cliff tops on either side grow nearer. Sunshine beating on the rock face to their right, across the river, promises warmth and feeds a lush, green curtain that is full of the tiny movements of living things. Water trickles down the rock face on that side, feeding into the river at the bottom, and huge pillows of moss and clumps of ferns have grown to cover the stone. Drips and spray catch the light and glitter, each one a different shard of refracted colour hanging off the droop of a fern frond, or perched on the surface of a pillowy moss.

Butterflies perch there to drink, and feed on the tiny pink flowers that have rooted in the moss, and Steve has to stop and watch them turn their wings to the sun to gather heat. Ruddy orange and black, white with orange tips, green with white lacework-- he counts four different kinds before their hiking spooks up a bird. It rockets through the gorge, swearing at them in high-pitched chattering, and the butterflies burst into flight in its wake. 

Steve smiles for the rest of the hike up to the top of the gorge.

Once they're over the steepest part of the gorge, they step out into brilliant sunshine. Squinting and turning their faces towards the sun, they silently agree to take a break. Steve, because he wants to absorb the sun's heat and watch the swirling butterflies, but Tony is out of breath. He looks flushed and happy though, stretching out his muscles as they look for a place to rest.

A nearby slab of stone makes a good bench, and they sit in the warm sun and take long drinks from their flasks. With their backpacks off, the mild sweat of the climb can dry away and the sun keeps them from getting chilled. 

There are more birds up here; Steve doesn't know how to identify them, but they fly up from the brush, straight up, then sing at full volume while they glide back down in a spiral. Little brown things, no bigger than a sparrow, with white bellies.

Now they're up on the plateau, the river and path settle into a shallower climb, burbling along peacefully together, away over the meadow. They rise steeply again in the distance, then the river becomes a waterfall, tumbling down a sheer cliff of dark slate. It's maybe a mile away, the route as far as they can see from here is winding and easy, but long, so that's a visit for another day. The sun is starting to lower towards the west, already, and they're not in a rush to see everything.

They can come back when they're not carrying the tent.

“The campsite you marked isn't far now, we should get there in plenty of time if I don't accidentally tempt you into the river,” Tony jokes, with a glance at the map that is probably entirely for show at this point; Tony proved his map reading skills twice over before lunch and Steve has been letting him discover their route by himself. They have Steve's eidetic memory as a backup, since he'd used satellite photos to decide where to bring them, but they won't need it and Tony is enjoying figuring out what Steve's pencil line means in the real world. 

“I'm not going to leap in, I promise. Not without a cabin with hot water to go back to.” 

Tony snorts and they take the turn away from the river, and off the animal trail again. “The showers were abominable, but it was all part of the appeal, and they did the job. They'd get us warm and dry after with hot soups and cocoa. Bonfires, sometimes.” 

They're soon walking through knee high meadow, the ground uneven with tussocks and the occasional rock, but it's mostly soft, pillowy grass. Rustling vegetation and the hasty scatter of wings mark the places they scare up birds, and Steve is almost certain he sees the tail of a snake, wiping away into deeper cover. Here and there, bogs are marked by thick clusters of dark green spikes, like a reed without any leaves, and the golden glimmers of still water amongst them. Steve takes a minute to poke one with his foot, and crouch down to peer into the bog itself. 

Sheltered under the clump of reeds, the little pool is clear and wriggling with life. Little beetles scoot around, hunting mosquito larvae, and he thinks the little black commas near the edges are tadpoles. 

They could be toad-poles! Who is he to tell the difference, but either way they're cute, and still very tiny. 

His feet, compressing the mossy bank, have sent a curl of cloudy silt into the pool, so he steps back carefully, and strides off after Tony's backpack. It's bright orange, and easily spotted against the golden browns of last year's grasses. This year's growth hasn't caught up yet, but deep in the meadow, the green is poking up through the thick thatch of old stems. Up until two months ago, this was a snow field, impassable, but the weather has warmed quickly and the plants aren't waiting around. 

The meadow crests on a rise and when Steve catches up, Tony is standing looking south, bathed in sunshine and tilted towards it to soak up the heat. It's definitely the right time of year to be here, Steve decides, joining him in admiring the landscape. It's not too hot to hike vigorously, but the sun is strong enough to make idle moments comfortable.

In the distance, lower down, he spots the woodland they'd started in. Beyond that, the checkerboard of rural farms stretches to the distant horizon, except where it's broken up by the gleaming of a river. 

“Hey Steve, is that it?”

Steve rouses himself from his contemplation and follows Tony's gesture. Down hill and to the south-west, on their right, is a sheltered glen of flat ground. A few small trees enclose it on the east side, and on the north and west, it's hunkered into the hillside, with grassy banks broken here and there by stone outcrops. 

To the south, it's open to the sunshine and the view. Steve had picked it because of that, because they had wanted sun and warmth and shelter so they didn't have to carry the heavier equipment. 

“That's it.” 

Tony sets off down the slope, smiling and picking his way to avoid a ridge that is ninety percent boulders. Steve follows leisurely, relying on peripheral vision to avoid ankle-traps, and enjoying the view. 

Over head, a hawk briefly catches his attention, but it's hunting and disappears behind the ridge line behind them. In the distance, a cluster of shapes resolves into the town they'd driven through and it's a little spike of humility to see how small humanity is in this landscape. 

Where he's from, there is no landscape left that isn't built, steel and concrete and heaving with people. It's amazing, he loves the city, but this...

This is perspective. The earth stretches away from them, the plains so flat and vast that he can see the curvature of the planet from up here. The river they followed up snakes across field and forest, picked out in the trees it waters and the glimmers of sunshine off its surface. 

He feels small, and expansive and calm. 

It's nice. 

He drops his gaze from the enormity of it, and follows Tony back into the real world. 

The glen is small, but big compared to the two of them. Steve catches up to Tony in the thin band of trees and they pause to collect deadwood. These trees haven't been managed by people, they're wild and craggy and there are dropped branches enough that they can afford to take only the very old and very dry ones. Anything with woodlice in, or what looks like a hollow a squirrel might use, they leave. 

By the time they have their arms full, they have seen a ground squirrel, been followed by a hungry robin looking for woodlice and found a salamander under a soggy log. They carefully put back the log and then grin at each other in excitement. 

“Okay, okay, it was very cool, but I think we have enough wood,” Tony decides, jostling his load into a more comfortable armful. “Log rolling for curiosity and science can wait until the morning.”

“Yeah, I fancy some food, too. Let's get set up.” 

Beyond the dip holding the trees, where a stream runs in a rocky bed, the ground is level and hard-packed, too dry for much to grow. It's been used before, there's a hole dug for a fire, and stones around it, but it's been a long time since anyone else was here. Whatever wildfire prevention the firepit was supposed to provide is countered by the weeds and grass that have grown up in the shelter of the stones and the nutrient-rich ashes. They'll have to clear it out.

They make a pile of their deadwood and shrug out of their packs. 

Between the two of them, they've brought four people's worth of weight, the bulk on Steve. Tony had carried a load and a half, too, though; he's lithe and more used to heavy weights than people generally expect. But then, most people don't work out in un-powered Iron Man armor twice a week. 

They sit on the hardpack and Steve digs out the last of the days hiking snacks. He hands Tony his fancy trail mix, which is mostly pistachios and mango because Tony is a man of fine tastes. The rest of the mix is marshmallow cereal, because he is also a heathen. Steve has a jerky pemmican that JARVIS makes for him, that is not full of sugar and artificial colours, _Tony_. It's ground up beef jerky with cranberries, nuts and god knows what else, rolled into a flat cake thing. It's delicious, but more importantly than that, it's about two thousand calories per hundred grams. He chews steadily, drinks his water, and soon he's got enough calories on board that he's happy to wait for real, cooked food.

Tony starts pulling weeds, so Steve finishes up too and breaks down the wood into pieces small enough to cook on. He stacks it off to one side while Tony's working in the pit, and very much does not laugh when Tony starts stabbing roots with a tent peg.

“Come out, yeh bastard,” Tony grumbles, pulling stubbornly. “The roots are flammable, so you can get fire travelling underground if you aren't careful. It's not that dry here, but still.” 

Steve nods along, finding that rather cool, actually. Once the wood is done, Tony has made a pile of dry grass, a pile of wet weeds, and is using the flat bend of a branch to tamp the firepit into a solid bowl again. Steve takes the dry grass, knowing Tony has set it aside for firelighter, and bundles it into a nest with some sticks. There's a gap though, between their kindling and their smallest wood, so he fishes out his knife from the side of his pack and starts peeling dry bark into chunks. 

“I haven't cooked on wood coals since I was in Afghanistan, this'll be nice,” Tony comments, shuffling the rocks around so he can scrape away the last bits of vegetation.

Steve goes still and makes a curious noise, worried by this out-of-the-blue confession, and not knowing how to respond to it. 

Fortunately, Tony rambles on with a nostalgic tone that's only maybe a bit sad. 

“Yinsen and I had the forge, and had plenty of wood. We were casting palladium; it had to get hot as hell. But it was great to cook on, we smoked a cabbage one day and it was fucking delicious.”

Steve laughed with him, picturing a cabbage on a spit like a rabbit. “That sounds awful, you'll have to make it if you want to convince me.” 

“I will, back home sometime,” Tony shrugs, smiling sadly at his work on the fire pit and poking at an air inlet he’s made out of two conveniently concave stones. 

“Yinsen was ...good to work with. It made things bearable.” 

“I'm glad, then. That he hung on for you.” 

Tony knows what he means, and Steve watches the tears well up. Tony tips his face to the sky so they don't fall, but they're there. “He did. God, I don't know how though.” 

“People are tough, we tend to keep on going. We think... We look at something and we think 'that'll break me, I won't be able to go on,’ but then it happens, and you break, and you go on anyway.” 

Tony leans over until their shoulders thump together, and he's letting the tears fall now, into his beard and over his smile, wobbly though it is. “We do, we're stubborn as fuck.”

Steve tucks his chin so they can share a vaguely salty kiss and they lean together for a while, waiting for the intensity to fade. Another small brown bird yells at them for being in its space, from over by the trees.

“Matches?” Tony offers, eventually. 

Steve nods, scooping together his pile of tinder and bark. “Yeah, let's get this going, and set up the tent while it's burning down.” 

Tony gets up, kissing him on the cheek on the way past, and bends over his pack. Steve's got his grass, the shavings, the twigs-- a reasonable progression of sizes, all laid out and ready to light, so while Tony rummages, he starts stacking the fuel wood in the pit, making a box and leaving the center hollow, then tipping handfuls of twigs into the middle. 

“Here,” Tony offers, holding out a matchbox. They have at least three, in various pockets, just in case. Fires are at least half the fun of a campout. 

Steve sets the grass alight, coddles the flames until shavings and bark chips catch, then carefully drops the lot into the firepit. Tony picks up the job from there, laying more small twigs on top and tapping the whole thing to make sure the burning embers fall into the center. 

Soon it's crackling merrily, the smoke puffing straight up in the shelter of the glen, then drifting west on the prevailing breeze. They sit and watch it eat their offerings, quiet and contented. 

Eventually, Tony nudges him and they get up to raise the tent. It's easy, just a little thing for sleeping in, and it has a little awning in front where they can store their gear. They finish quickly, since Tony seems to know exactly where everything goes, and how much pressure to exert on the hoop poles to make the dome pop upright. Steve leaves that part to him; if Steve breaks one of the springy fiberglass poles, there will be rather more improvisation in their evening than he really wants.

Their canteens are almost empty and by the time they're finished raising and pegging down, he wants a drink, so Steve leaves Tony enjoying the fire and takes their jug to the stream to fill.

The little stream that feeds the trees emerges out of the back of the glen as a spring, filtered down through the rocks from the plateau above. The water is crystal clear and sweet with hardness from the minerals, but Tony can't drink it until it's been treated, so he collects enough for the two days, to treat all at once. He holds the collapsing jug open under the flow of a miniature waterfall, until the two-gallon capacity is overflowing. While he waits, he's treated to the sight of a shy little black and white bird flying under the water, then taking off like there's no difference between river and sky. Its feathers aren't even dampened and it flits off through sunbeams and shadows to find a quieter stretch of stream.

The clicking of a rock on a tent peg greets him on the way back; Tony is just finishing up, moving leisurely in the afternoon sun.

He's sitting on a waterproof picnic blanket laid out between the fire and the tent, his boots off and lined up nearly at the edge. The blanket is red tartan, and its corners are pegged firmly into the hard ground so even if there is a breeze, it won't be able to blow away, or onto the fire; Steve loves Tony very, very much, not least for the thoughtful, competent way he goes about everyday life. Tony puts his hammer rock away as he approaches, and meets Steve at the edge of the blanket for a kiss. 

“For me, darling? You shouldn't have,” Tony says, taking the water. 

“For you, anything,” Steve quips back, kissing him again. Tony laughs at him and backs off to let him onto the blanket. He turns around and sits down to take his boots off, deeply enjoying the release of pressure and cool air between his toes. He lines his boots up next to Tony's, and doesn't make a joke about the size difference. It's a trial, but he doesn't. 

Their packs are almost empty now, so Steve tidies them away to act as closets inside the tent. The last of the equipment, he brings back with him to the fire. The steel box jingles faintly, the cups and miniature pans clinking against each other inside. Tony has already unearthed the food and has the cooler open. They brought steaks, and prawns, only one of which will last until tomorrow evening with the ice packs they used, so it's prawns for dinner. They also have a bundle of fresh produce, and little sealed pats of butter, salt and pepper--

It's rich-bastard camping, and Steve's stomach is very much looking forward to it.

The majority of the wood has burned down into coals, so Steve scrapes them together at the near side of the fire and refills the back half with more wood. Then he untangles the little steel grill from the cooking set and balances it across two rocks. Tony's obviously set this up on purpose; the rocks are flat topped and levelled. And Steve _loves_ _him._ He focuses on adjusting the wood he's added to the back half of the fire, big chunks that'll make long-lasting coals, because if he doesn't there will be confessions and tender shaking hugs and they will still be hungry. 

Steve knows this; this is what happens every time they tell each other, even now. He'll hang on to the feeling until after dinner. 

“Do you want to bother with making soup? We have the stuff,” Tony asks, gesturing with a stick of celery. Tony hates raw celery, so it's obvious he fancies it as soup. 

“Let's bother, it'll be nice to drink later, when it's cooler, or for lunch.” Steve un-stacks the rest of the camp cookware and balances the largest pot on his crossed ankles, ready to accept ingredients. 

“Yeah. That's a good point. Plus: delicious way to keep our cooking waste to a minimum. Do bears like shellfish? I bet they do.” 

Steve chuckles and accepts the brandished celery before it pokes him in the head. “I'm sure they would, if there were any in the area. There aren't any here though, coyote country, maybe cougars, but not bears.” 

“I could take a cougar, for sure,” Tony says, gesturing with his pocket knife. The effect is kind of spoiled by the fact he is chopping a carrot with it, but only a little bit. 

“I'll handle the coyotes then, pass me the bag of bits and bobs.” Steve points at the bag, which is made up of tiny packets of seasonings, and their oil and butter.

“Square deal! Division of labor, the foundation of all good teamwork.” Tony hooks the bag on his little finger, since the rest are occupied by carrot and knife, and passes it over. 

“We do make a great team,” Steve mumbles, rummaging distractedly for the oil. “What sauce is this?” 

“Korean style for the beef, and JARVIS added something for lunches, a special-sauce thing. Relish.”

Steve picks out a packet labelled 'stock’ in JARVIS’ mechanical 'hand' writing, and the salt and pepper. Then, right at the bottom, he finds the oil and butter. 

He oils the soup pan and they tip in the vegetables, and put them over the fire to start browning, while they open the packet of prawns and start peeling. 

“We could have brought peeled, you know,” Tony comments, running his thumb along the inside of the shell and popping it free. Steve takes it to devein, and they fall into a routine without having to say anything. 

“But we didn't,” Steve comments, laying the prepared meat straight on the grill. “And now we get to have fresh soup?” 

Tony points at him with a shelled prawn, rather more alarming than the celery, and Steve relieves him of it. “This is why we are the best. No shortcuts to awesomeness.” 

Steve laughs. “I just didn't think of it, Tony. They come in shells, as far as I'm concerned.”

Tony starts work on another one, nodding agreeably. “For me, too. JARVIS shops like a fancy chef, I swear. I have to order my own if I want to have chicken nuggets in the freezer.” 

“How did he learn about food? He can't eat, or even smell it.” Steve asks. “And you seem to have learned mostly from him?” They've shelled and started grilling enough prawns to fill the grill now, so they idle for a minute. They won't be waiting long though; fragrant steam and sizzling are rising from the grill already.

“He watches too much YouTube, mostly. And Happy really likes cooking fancy food, so they gossip about it.”

Steve doesn't know Happy very well yet, but this is kind of surprising. He looks like a burger and chips kind of guy. “Does he cook for you? When you're in Malibu?” 

Tony nods and hands Steve the prawn shells. Taking this as a cue, Steve checks on the soup vegetables. 

“Happy makes really nice Italian, when we're at the house. He's busy with security these days though, so we have to make the time. It's harder.” 

The veggies are browning and soft, so Steve adds the shells to a great sizzling and puff of steam. “We should all cook together sometime,” Steve suggests, while he's stirring the shells in so they can get brown too 

“I'd like that. Happy's always got good ideas, and gives good instructions.”

Steve raises his eyebrows at this and gives Tony a deeply incredulous look. 

Tony laughs and slaps him on the knee. “I can take instructions! Slander!” 

“I didn't say anything. It's only slander if it's aloud.”

“Loudest thoughts I've ever heard, you cheeky little shit.” Tony steals the tongs and shoulders him aside to poke at their dinner himself. 

Steve lets himself be knocked over, and lies back on the blanket, staring up at the sky and listening to the mouthwatering sizzles as Tony flips the prawns. The sky overhead is starting to streak with purple, wispy clouds and contrails glowing soft peach, red, gold. The sun slants into the glen still, but the back half is in the shadow of the west wall. The soundscape is starting to change, too; the sunshine chatter of birds and insects has swelled with approaching dusk. 

A hissing bubble makes him sit up again, just in time to appreciate the fragrant steam rising from the pot as Tony pours in the water and breaks up the fish stock. He shuffles so he can lean their shoulders together, and passes Tony the bread rolls.

This kind of soup is one of Steve's favourite things, and combined with the soul-deep contentment of cooking by a fire, he feels warm and solid, connected to the world and to Tony. Shrimp shells were cheap, delicious sources of calcium, back when, and he'd eaten them like this as a kid. It isn't exactly the fancy-style stuff Tony would call bisque, but it is something they can make over the fire that has vegetables in.

Not that he’s complaining about grilling meat; the prawns they placed first are looking very golden and pink, and Steve can't wait.

Tony has split the rolls, buttered them, and Steve watches him wrestle with crunchy salad leaves in amusement. They're just a little bit too big for the buns.

“Alright, shut up,” Tony chides, wriggling an elbow at him. 

Steve bubbles over with laughter, tucks his ticklish side away from Tony's elbow and reaches over to break the stem so it'll fold nicely.

“You-- oh, I see. Smart cookie, aren't you?” 

Steve finds this irresistible, and leans over to kiss Tony on the temple. “Thank you, that's nice to know.” 

“Bask in your salad-defeating glory, Steve, it won't happen again.” Tony snaps the remaining leaves in half and they fit easily into the buns.

It was Steve's idea to make the food such a big part of the trip, so it's nice to see Tony really into it, and to know it's bringing up all sorts of fond associations.

Next, he layers the salad with sprigs of herbs that JARVIS has just labelled 'for prawns’. Steve leans in for a sniff and Tony obligingly holds them up. Parsley and basil, and something lemony. Mild, salad herbs. Steve's stomach rumbles in appreciation. 

Surely it's been six minutes now; Steve fishes the tongs out of the mug and leans over the grill to poke the prawns. They're almost there; starting to get golden hash lines from the grill, and pink all the way through. With the fire burned down to coals, it's almost smokeless, but not completely. The sweet tang of woodsmoke mixing with the smell of fried, buttered seafood makes Steve's mouth water. 

He deems the first two ready to eat; “Tony, hold out a bun for me? Thanks.” He carefully stacks the two huge prawns on the salad and Tony closes the bun to keep them in place. They make eye contact over the food and grin like children. 

“Here, you first,” Tony says, and holds the sandwich up.

Steve looks him deep in the eye, solemn and serious. “I love you.”

Tony blushes almost instantly, squirming and looking away, and Steve leans in to take a bite.

It's absolutely everything the cooking smells had promised; rich, buttery, juicy prawn, the crunch of salad, and then the green, fresh burst of herbs. Rich seafood meatiness and lemony basil work so well together that he drifts away for a second, chewing and staring into the middle distance. 

“Holy shit--” Tony exclaims, through his own mouthful. “How is this so good, what the fuck did we do to it? Hah!”

Steve comes back to himself and quickly pulls the rest of the perfectly cooked prawns. He makes up another sandwich and eats ravenously but carefully; he wants to appreciate this properly. 

They eat in wordless appreciation, humming and moaning meaningfully at each other when it becomes too much to keep quiet, but their mouths are too busy for words. 

After his second, Steve manages to slow down for a minute, and wipes his fingers on his towel. “This is a delicious way to eat outside. Fresh.”

Tony mumble-groans in agreement, licking his fingers and polishing off his second, too. “Super fresh. Seasoned with air and sunset and hunger.”

It really is shaping up to be a beautiful sunset, though they can't see directly west. The last shafts of late sunshine sweep across the sky in ever darkening shades of gold and red, and the clouds cast giant shadows over themselves. 

Steve absently puts the last of the prawns on the grill and settles in with another sandwich to appreciate the view. 

Tony shuffles up beside him and prods and pokes until Steve makes space for him to use his thigh as a pillow. Steve does his best to avoid crumbs after that. The bread is fresh this morning, and bouncy on the inside, with a crunchy, golden brown crust, so he has his work cut out for him. The butter and juices from the meat threaten to escape, too, so he does a lot of finger-licking. 

Tony is warm and heavy, and very still, looking out over the fire to the colourful sky. It's unusual for him to be so absorbed, but he looks happy, and he's nibbling on his dinner, so Steve is content too. He quietly fills his belly, turning the prawns and moving the finished soup off the heat. The air is slowly cooling without the sun, so once the food is finished, he pulls the grill off and stacks more wood onto the coals. The leftovers go in one of the steel camping pans that has a clip on lid; he makes them up as sandwiches so they can just pick them up and go. He closes up the soup too, after tasting it and adding a bit of salt. He'll pack it for lunch tomorrow, it'll be even better cold, when the sun is doing it's best to roast them. 

“This is nice,” Tony mumbles, face half smushed into Steve's thigh. Steve brushes his hair away from his face and peers down at him. He looks nearly asleep, relaxed and satisfied. 

Steve leaves him be, and pulls the cooler over to look for his dessert ingredients. He and JARVIS prepared it in advance, so all he has to do is nestle the tinfoil package in the gentle heat at the edge of the fire. Job done, he urges Tony up and resettles them so they're lying pressed together, with Tony in the shelter of his arm and using his shoulder as a pillow. It's warmer, and Steve can relax bonelessly, watching the stars shimmer into life between the purpling clouds. 

The fire pops and settles, sending up sparks to join the stars. 

“Oh hey, Venus.” Tony points and there she is, bright enough to shine through the red-washed orange of a contrail. 

“Anyone else we can look for today?” Steve asks, idly petting Tony's hip. 

Tony shrugs. “I didn't check. We'll just have to wait and see.” 

“I'm okay with that. It's already beautiful.” 

Slowly, the last of the sunbeams fade away, turning sunset into dusk and letting the deep navy blue steal across the sky, chasing out the golds and reds. The stars swell to fill the darkness, shimmering with the shadows of distant nebulas. 

“Mmm, what's that smell?” Tony mumbles, hefting himself up on his elbow and then draping over Steve's chest to investigate the fire. Steve doesn't mind; Tony's weight is comforting and warm, and besides, he's been smelling dessert for a while now, and really, really wants to try it. 

“Foil packet. Careful, there'll be steam.” 

Tony nods and pops up to his knees, crawling over Steve to play with the fire. Steve leaves him to discover the treat for himself and pulls their cutlery pouch out of the bag. He finds two spoons then reconsiders and puts one back, grinning to himself. 

“St _eeee_ ve, you are a naughty person, a devil, a temptation, what do you call this?” Tony has the foil packet out of the coals and teases it open with careful flicks of his fingers, blowing on them in-between touches. Steve offers him a steel bowl from the kit and he drops the packet into it, so he can focus on folding back the foil. 

“Dirty truffles, _en Papillote._ ”

“Oooh, speak French to me, baby,” Tony quips, grinning and sucking one finger that got too hot. 

“It means 'in a bag’, so sexy.” He uses the spoon to mix the melted chocolate truffles and fruit together, blending the berry juices and chocolate into a smooth sauce. It smells amazing, chocolate and strawberries, the smooth smoke of the fire.

Steve almost licks the spoon, but decides he wants to see Tony’s reaction first and holds it out for him, instead. Tony shoots him a glance under his eyelashes, an ‘I’m not fooled’ glance, and Steve shrugs, grinning. 

“It’s not a trap, it’s me finding you deeply sexy, c’mon, it’s chocolate.” 

“Oh fine, but just because it smells amazing and also: you are very sexy too.” Tony closes his mouth around the spoon, holding Steve’s wrist steady with a gentle hand. His eyes drift closed, he moans, and Steve gently pulls the spoon away so he can kiss the flavour for himself. Tony responds immediately, licking at his tongue and sharing the creamy-sharp sweetness like the giving, ridiculous creature he is. 

When they pull back, Tony has a smear of chocolate on his lip, so Steve leans back in and licks it away. They get caught in each other for a minute, their temples touching and breaths mingling together. 

But dessert smells really, _really_ good, and they turn their focus away from each other for a little longer. They sit tangled together, the bowl on their legs, and sharing warmth as the air cools.

The chocolate satisfies something in Steve that makes him settle into a sleepy torpor. Tony is brighter, commenting on the food and musing about the different berries and how they interact with the chocolate. He concludes that he likes the sourer berries best, because they work in counterpoint to the intense richness of the chocolate. Steve hums into the back of his neck in pleased agreement. 

Once he feels the bowl leave their legs, Steve inexorably tips them backwards. Tony laughs quietly at him and turns in his arms so they're cuddled together on the blanket. 

“I thought there weren't any bears here, hmm?” 

Steve rumbles in a poor imitation of one and burrows into the crook of Tony's neck with his eyes closed. He can feel Tony settling in to look at the stars, so he reluctantly unburies himself and looks up.

It's enough to take his breath away.

The milky way stretching across the sky has never been so brilliant before. In the pitch dark, no city lights, barely any cloud, it's bright enough to see the smoky drifts of yellow and purple, to appreciate its incomprehensible, vast remoteness.

The constellations splash across the sky, too, brighter and sharper than the smoke-dulled skies of blackout Britain. Falsworth had taught him how to use them to find north, how to mark time by the swing of Orion across the heavens. This is different. It makes him feel vast and calm and insignificant. 

He sighs into Tony's hair and cuddles close. 

Later, they will have to tidy up, lock away their camp for the night, but for just now, Steve lets the world go and watches the sky.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The tent is a small thing, they change out of their hiking clothes outside because it will be too cramped inside, and besides there is no one here to see them. Even when they pause, partially naked, to kiss and appreciate each other properly. 

Tony can't keep his hands to himself, Steve is too compelling to resist. The smooth, golden sheen of his skin catches the ember light off their banked fire and Tony runs his palms over it like it's a universal law. A requirement for continued existence. The kisses turn languid and deep with their exhaustion, though, and Tony eventually pulls himself away. 

"Go on, in. We don't need super-serumed mosquitoes in the world." 

Steve goes, unzipping the tent door and shoving the bundles of their equipment inside. His sleep pants stretch over his ass as he bends and crouches, and if Tony was even slightly less sleepy, he'd absolutely goose him. But he just wants to sleep, so he leaves Steve unmolested for now. 

They have a double bedroll; there will be plenty of time for that in the morning. 

With the gear stowed, Steve climbs inside and Tony follows, pulling the zipper closed behind them. 

It's no warmer in the tent, but their body heat will fix that soon enough, and the bedroll is fancy synthetic down. Steve is already halfway in, fussing with the bedding and head bowed to avoid touching the tent wall. 

Tony joins him, slipping into the sleeping bag and quietly but firmly pushing him down onto the mattress. Steve goes still and calm and blows out a big breath as his head hits the pillow. It may be made out of their folded clothes, but it's still a pillow. 

"Hi." 

"Hi yourself, handsome," Tony mumbles back, already snuggling down to close off any cool drafts. 

Steve rolls towards him and Tony finds himself squashed against a broad, silky expanse of skin that, really, can't be resisted. 

Steve twitches when Tony licks him, so he apologises with a kiss. He even tastes nice, salty and fresh.

"I'm not really in the mood, for once," Steve muses, though he doesn't sound unhappy about it. Tony turns his cheek to Steve's pec and luxuriates in the silky smooth skin and pliant muscle.

"All praise to the supersoldier libido under usual circumstances," Tony mumbles, face tucked between Steve's pecs and almost completely buried in the bedroll by this point. "But yeah. 'm sleepy. Maybe in the morning." Tony stifles a yawn into Steve's skin and mouths vaguely at a nipple, too sleepy to resist. 

Steve twitches and readjusts them so Tony can't reach anymore; a shame. He also nibbles on the top of Tony's ear, idle and soft and ticklish. 

Tony nuzzles at the crease of Steve's shoulder, enjoying the softness of Steve's relaxed muscles, breathing in the soft smells of hiking and smoke. When licked, he just twitches away, though, and Tony settles back down.

"You are a danger to yourself and others," Steve tells the top of his head, sounding pleasingly flustered. Tony snickers into the dark warmth, unrepentant.

"Don't make promises you're too sleepy to keep, honey." 

Tony feels a kiss on the top of his head, and Steve snuffling his hair like a giant puppy. It's very endearing, and Tony sneaks an arm around Steve's naked waist to draw them closer together. It's so warm, and utterly silent, that Tony feels like he's at the edge of the world, where nothing else matters except the softness and warmth of being close with the man he loves.

It rises up his throat, hot and bright and beautiful. It's almost too much to speak through, too much for one person to feel. He presses himself closer to Steve, face hidden and his body shimmering with contained emotion.

Steve curls around him, a big arm over his shoulders and the other under his head, and Tony clutches him tight. 

"I love you, oh god Steve, I love you _so much--_ I don't say it enough, I think, but--"

"Shhhh, Tony." Steve strokes down his back, pressing out some of the tension and Tony takes a deeper, smoother breath. "You do. You absolutely say it every day, even if the words are different sometimes. And I love you too." 

Tony he sniffs, overwhelmed, relieved, and made soft. Steve puts a hand on the back of his head and holds him close enough that the ache melts into something warmer and smoother. 

"It's been a lovely day, perfect. Thank you, Steve. I love you." 

Steve 'hmm's into his hair and rocks them slightly. "You're allowed to cry because you're happy, y'know." 

Tony blushes instantly, mortified that Steve can tell his eyes are prickling. "It's ridiculous, Steve, c'mon." 

Steve rolls just slightly and Tony finds himself half-squashed under a significant proportion of Steve's bodyweight. " _Steve, this is cheating._ " 

Steve rumbles with silent laughter, tucking and shuffling pillows until they're both comfortable despite the weight. "It's not cheating, it's _comforting_."

"It's heavy, is what it is," Tony grouches, accepting a kiss on the corner of his mouth with poor grace. 

"Give it five minutes, Tony." He settles more completely, his thigh heavy over both of Tony's and his head in the crook of Tony's neck.

"Yeah..." Tony can already feel the calm seeping into his limbs. "Yeah. Okay, five...five minutes." 

"I love you, Tony. Thank you for coming out with me, and letting me navigate," Steve mumbles, sounding like he's on his way to sleep. 

Tony finds himself inexorably pulled along in his wake, fingers and toes feeling heavy and limbs slow. 

"I really liked hearing about gorge walking," Steve mumbles, and Tony wonders how he's still talking, just as a giant yawn overtakes him. "Wanna cook with Happy."

Tony snuffles, eyes falling closed and agreeing with a vague hum. Steve's next sentence is lost to the mumbling and inattention of sleep, and Tony falls asleep.

It's not even been five minutes. 


End file.
